Pantomime
by custosCathedra
Summary: "Slender, near skeletal. Hair a dull brown, ratted in a wild bird's nest. Eyes like coals sunken into insomniac sockets. The man before me was a maniac" With the leader of a cult behind bars, a detective dead, what's left is a puzzle missing a lot of pieces and when two teens meet...they all begin to fall into place. (Triggers: murder, gore, smut, drugs, alcohol. Some romance!)
1. Prologue: My First and Last Mistake

Slender, near skeletal. Hair a dull brown, ratted in a wild bird's nest. Eyes like coals sunken into insomniac sockets. The man before me was a maniac. Those eyes were predatory, a wry smile full of secrets grew across his face as he sat across from me at the interrogation table. Spindly fingers sprouting like malnourished limbs from his hands, curling, stretching. He was impatient. I was too. I bet he could smell the warm stench of sweat at my neck.

"You look like you've got something to tell me detective?" that voice was unnerving. It's like if nails on a chalkboard had a hot cousin. You know that rasping cold sound is that of a murderer, but it dripped with a strange sexual appeal. He could smell my sweat as it dampened my collar, "Found another? Perhaps they've decided to off me, put me on death row first class...," I spun my chair around and sat on it backwards, leaning over the back feigning a casual air.

"Death row? Heh," a smirk graced my face, "You're undeserving of death. You and your family of bozos are going to live long and miserable lives tucked away from the world. You're going to help me put them away, all of them,"

"I would indeed like some company in these hollow halls," had I done it?

"So you'll help us? We have your word?" the maniac's grin became wide and toothy, laughter seeped through the cracks in his yellowed teeth.

"They must live with me detective," he leaned back a mirror of my motions as I had in frustration leaned across the table, "A family man like yourself surely know how it feels to be...protective of those you love," I felt my jaw clench, veins tight like strained wires beneath my skin. That tongue threw darts. I lunged further forward and that damn table creaked. I was moments from wringing that son of a bitch's neck.

"I'm not sure a man like yourself knows love," I was nearly forehead to forehead with this creep, eyes boring holes in his. I was nearly forehead to forehead with him...

That was my final mistake.


	2. Chapter 1: Echoes of Summers Past

Two years ago to the day my father had his throat ripped out by some madman. Not too long before that some batshit clown-hippies had dropped my mom's entrails on our porch. Looking back, it was a warning. Boy, is hindsight 20/20. Dad didn't heed the warning and hit the case harder than ever and now he's dead, she's dead, and I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if they came after me.

In the absence of my parents a douchebag cousin of mine took me in. Don't get me wrong I'm grateful, but he isn't the least bit sensitive to my plight. Crass dead parents jokes usually beginning with batman and ending with us entangled in a no holds barred fist fight. For his sake, I hope he becomes self aware. One good thing about him is he doesn't charge me rent, I just have to clean and buy my own food. Not a bad deal considering how fucked I could've been. With the change of living situations had come a change of job, I went from a satisfied techie at a decrepit local Best Buy to stumbling through just about every food service job in town. Today, I was miserably doling out sugary caffeinated beverages to cackling high-schoolers and stoic businessmen.

"Grande iced caramel macchiato for Dick Strider?" and there he was, per usual. Leaning up against a wall waiting for his order, wearing his shades indoors like an enormous douche. He approached the counter with a cool stride, well paced, near rhythmic steps.

"That's Richard to you," he smirked. No matter what insult I pulled out of my ass, I couldn't shake his cool, collected attitude. Always had a perfect comeback without hesitation or turned my desperate attempts at embarrassing him into some joke.

"Why are you _such_ a tool?" I sighed.

"Aw...you think I'm useful?" his lip curled up in a shit eating smirk.

"No! You know that's not what I meant. Gah, you..."

"If you wanna talk more, here's my card. I gotta jet bean boy," and there he went. Out the door and hit the sidewalk on his longboard.

And that's how I made my first real friend since I had moved to this shitty town. That 'business' card had a phone number, email and gamer-tag listed on it and out of some weird desperation I had actually contacted him. Dave Strider was a tool, but not as big of one as I'd assumed. Within a month he had me longboarding with him all around town and listening to his 'sick beats' he'd manufactured on some pirated software on his laptop. He'd come bother me at work and I'd hide him from his brother in the back room when he'd gotten himself into some deep shit. It was a nice change of pace after nearly two years of some kind of fate-enforced solitude.

One weekend we'd decided to go for a midnight stroll down to the gas station, Dave said he had a hankering for apple juice and who was I to deny him. We'd planned an all-nighter, gaming till the sun came up and Jake hadn't exactly stockpiled the house with food. Never did. The night air was stale, warm and unmoving. It only took a few moments before I began to space out, the air wasn't just stale, it reeked of something. Dave's voice faded away as I became more and more focused on that smell. Luckily, he didn't seem to notice my thousand yard stare boring a hole in the air in front of me.

"John,...dude are you gonna get anything?" Dave's hand on my shoulder jolted me out of my head.

"I uh...one sec," I shoved my hands into my pockets, a nickel and some lint, "Don't have any cash on me, guess not."

"I'll surprise you my dude, stay here!" before I could protest Dave's gesture he had bolted inside the 7/11 leaving me dwelling on the sidewalk.

That was honestly the worst thing he could have done. Up until we had gotten super close, I'd been deathly afraid of going out too late at night. Who could blame me? Night-time hadn't proven to be safe, I used to be alone all the time so I had no reason to. I always got this strange sense of paranoia even when running the trash can out to the curb at ten in the evening because I'd forgotten that afternoon. Shoving my hands into my hoodie pockets, I kept my gaze focused on the ground, breathing steady. No need to panic. You're right by a window, your friend is inside, and the cashier can clearly see you. Nothing will happen. No one would dare...

"You motherfuckin waiting for some shit?" out of the smooth silence of the night came a low gravelly voice. I just about jumped out of my skin and made a bones only dash home. Screw AJ and gaming with Dave. I looked up and breathed a sigh of relief. I'd seen this kid before. He was tall, lanky, hazel eyes and a crooked grin. Definitely looked cleaner than he smelled, "Don't be shy, no need to be all up and embarrassed. I like standing around too, gets the body all alive feelin"

"Just waiting for a friend, that's all," I finally mustered the courage to speak. He ran a hand through his mop of dark, messy curls; his fingers got stuck, entangled in the mess.

"That's cool dude," he smiled. It was awkward, but warm, "Could you motherfuckin help a brother out? My hand's sorta stuckish,"

"Pull it out yourself," I paused, there was a pout on his lips and a kicked puppy look in his eyes, "It can't possibly be that stuck..."

"You haven't got a clue about the wicked tricks all up in my mop, it's like a fuckin' trap," he looked ridiculous and I couldn't help but give in.

"Here, duck down a bit...," as he stooped I held my breath. In all honesty, he didn't smell outright filthy, just very earthy and strange. The scent made my stomach turn. I set to work on safely moving knots and mats of hair to help his hand out, "Ever brush it?"

"Sometimes when I've got a brush I do," he closed his eyes as I worked his hair. Cars drove by on the road and I wondered if anyone saw this oddly intimate moment. I got this vibe that a brush wasn't something easy to come by for him, that he might be homeless. Didn't have the gall to ask though. After what felt like hours I got his hand loose from the tangles, "Shit, thanks...s'embarrassin,"

"No biggie I guess, I've seen you around and-"

"I seen you around too," I froze as he cut me off. Those eyes, a crooked grin, wicked curls...I took a step back towards the store, "Never caught your motherfuckin name though," I opened my mouth to speak and nothing but aimless air wheezed out, my hand felt so much more filthy now. Stepping forward his presence grew menacing. Maybe it was the height, the darkness, his looks that ignited memories of mug shots plastered in my father's office and the papers in the days to follow...

"John," what am I doing? It's like I couldn't move, a deer in fucked up hazel headlights.

"Thanks John, maybe I'll get to pay you back sometime," the animistic qualities my paranoid mind assigned him began to ebb away as I found myself on the receiving end of a pat on the shoulder and a smile that radiated warmth and gratitude, "See you around motherfucker," and he began to walk off into the night. Hopefully on his way home, it was getting late. Dave popped out of the convince store not a moment later with AJ and a large blue slushie.

"You okay John? Fuck's sake dude it looks like you've just seen god, jesus and nic cage all in one moment," I shook the myriad of feelings from myself and took the slushie from Dave.

"Yeah, oh and thanks for the slushie. I just...," excuses and lies were not my strong suit, "Saw a huge rat...it was mortifying,"

"No way...had to be a possum,"

"Same thing right?" Dave laughed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we began to walk. I lifted my palm to my nose and inhaled, the scent of earth and ash...it was real. He was real, but who was he? The night was humid, sticky with summer heat; it echoed of summers past. Of summer days two years ago.


End file.
